


Wake Up Call

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2008-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title: Wake Up Call<br/>Fandom: Torchwood<br/>Pairing: jack/ianto<br/>Rating: NC-17<br/>Word count: 1213<br/>Warnings: Spoilers of a sort for Cyberwoman. Also, teeny tiny spoilers for Adam. Brief bit of gruesome imagery at the beginning as well. <br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them. (And at least I won’t break them as bad as YOU did, Uncle Rusty. For SHAME!)<br/>Summary: No sir. You can use that wakeup call on me anytime.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wake Up Call

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Wake Up Call  
> Fandom: Torchwood  
> Pairing: jack/ianto  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Word count: 1213  
> Warnings: Spoilers of a sort for Cyberwoman. Also, teeny tiny spoilers for Adam. Brief bit of gruesome imagery at the beginning as well.   
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them. (And at least I won’t break them as bad as YOU did, Uncle Rusty. For SHAME!)  
> Summary: No sir. You can use that wakeup call on me anytime.

You are dreaming about London again.

Except, it isn’t London, not exactly. It feels the same, sounds the same, even smells the same, but it looks somehow worse than you remember. You don’t recognize the walls that surround you – they’re gray and damp and cavernous instead of sleek and modern and steel. Rivers of blood pour over the tiles under your feet. Friend’s blood. Co-worker’s blood. Your shoes leave a waffle pattern in the steady trickle of red with every step. You look to your left, and the shell of what used to be Ted in R&D is hanging from the ceiling. 

Gutted.

His lab coat is soaked with blood, blood that is now dripping from the saturated cotton. The constant drip, drip, drip sounds like seconds ticking by on a stopwatch, slowed to half time and ticking through thick wool. You look down at your hand reflexively, find the stopwatch clutched in red-stained fingers, and realize ten minutes have gone by. Since what, you don’t know – since the attack began? Since you started looking for survivors? Since you gave up hope? – but the time is marked off clearly by the constantly moving hands. 

Then you don’t hear the ticking anymore. It’s replaced by something else, something just as regimental in its rhythm as the clock eating away seconds or the blood’s systematic dripping. Loud, metallic thuds echo in the quiet hall. The floor vibrates beneath you; you can feel each tremor through the soles of your shoes, stronger and louder as it gets closer and closer. And you know what “it” is, as sure as you know your name – 

(Ianto Jones)

and the color of her eyes –

(brown).

You know before the creature rounds the corner, before you see the large metal feet stop in front of you. Even before that distorted (familiar) voice speaks your name. 

“Look at me, Ianto.” It sounds like an order. When you don’t respond, the voice softens. It almost sounds like a plea. “Look at me.”

And you can’t. You can’t look up, no matter how much the voice wants you to. Because it’s not that the voice wants you to look at it. It wants you to look at what it’s done. Because it’s not Ted from R&D that’s hanging from the wall. It’s Owen. And if you look up, you know you’ll find Tosh and Gwen hanging there as well. This isn’t London. This isn’t Canary Wharf. It’s the Hub. You know, because it’s not Lisa’s voice commanding you to look up. 

It’s Jack’s. 

That hard, inhuman voice echoing off the walls belongs to Jack.

A cold, metal hand grips your chin. Harsh fingers dig into the skin, bruise the bone, and start to jerk your eyes upward.

“Look at me and see what you’ve done.”

Before your eyes make it further than the half-converted chest, something grabs you and drags you out of the dark. Gray rock walls disappear. The smell of blood in your nostrils, the feel of it, wet and sticky under your feet, disappears. Here there is light. Peace. Silence. 

A (familiar) voice parts the silence, eases it open with gentle hands. “Look at me, Ianto.”

“I can’t.” You run your tongue over dry lips - 

(They taste like metal)

and try to force the words past a throat dry as dust. “I’m afraid.”

He chuckles. You feel it against your thigh, both the warmth of his breath and the vibration of the laugh itself. “I promise I won’t bite.” A beat, a wicked curl of the lip against your skin that feels like a smile. “Unless you want me to. Now open those gorgeous eyes for me.”

It’s not until he tells you to open them that you realize you’ve been squeezing your eyes shut all along. You pry them open one at a time, slow to focus away from the light overhead, no matter how glaring or brutal it is. You’re in Jack’s office. In Jack’s chair. 

Naked, in Jack’s chair.

As you’re taking in the last part, as you’re letting your eyes drift and dip and wander, you discover Jack kneeling on the floor between your splayed knees. His head is pillowed on your thigh and he’s smiling. 

“That’s better,” he says. His left hand, keeping company with your other thigh, strokes lightly over the warm skin beneath it. “Can’t have you imagining I’m someone else, can we? My ego couldn’t take it.”

“Imagining you’re someone else? I’m not sure I – oh God…” He doesn’t give any warning. You’re still talking, asking questions, and his tongue is slipping out from between his lips to lap a slow, obscene swipe up the underside of your cock. More than obscene is the look in his eyes as he does it – equal parts hedonistic mischief and primal hunger and even if you weren’t hard, even if he wasn’t tracing hot, wet swirls over your skin with the tip of his tongue, you would be at that look. 

“Jesus, Jack,” you mutter/groan as slide a hand through his hair and your fingers find purchase in the thick strands more as instinct than a conscious act. When his lips wrap around the head and tease with a suction that is both exquisite and nowhere near enough, your fingers tighten in his hair and you’re lucky if you don’t scream when you say “Fucking Christ!”

His lips, stretched as they are, full of your cock and that talented tongue and those too many teeth, bend into a smile before they slide off and let you go with a perverse “pop.”

“Don’t go deifying me yet,” he says, offering the span of five words as brief respite before he sinks down once again and swallows your cock down to the base.

 

You wake up screaming, no thoughts of London in your head at all. There’s only one word on your mind as you jerk and spasm and empty yourself into the very real mouth wrapped around your very real cock. It’s the same word being ripped from your half-asleep throat.

Jack. Just Jack, screamed to the heavens and chanted through your head like a benediction.

(Coming here gave me meaning again. You)

He crawls back up the bed and settles on his side next to you. Looks bright-eyed and wide awake and you wonder how long he’s been up. 

“Nightmare,” he says, as if he can read your question in the dull light in your lust-glazed eyes or the spent cant of your head.

“Don’t you have to sleep to have nightmares?” You’re impressed how breathless the question doesn’t sound.

“You had the nightmare.” A finger, neither accusing or forceful, pokes at your chest in emphasis. “You were muttering about Cybermen. Lisa.”

(Brown eyes)

(Twisted metal)

(No. The eyes you dreamt about were blue.)

“Thought I’d better wake you up.” His grin twists. Concern gets wrapped up and warped by lazy, half-finished intent and a warm hand strokes your thigh. “Hope you don’t mind the method.”

This time, you grin. The dream is hazy and slipping further out of mind, ebbed away by your slowing pulse and the dissipating thrum of your release. “No sir,” you say with a languid stretch. “You can use that as a wakeup call any time you see fit.”


End file.
